Like Feral Wolves & Roaring Lions
by Jina E. Evergeen
Summary: The Lannisters are all home for Tommen's unanticipated wedding. The Starks march for Casterly Rock with an army rather unconventional, grim in their vengeance. As luck would have it, so does Stannis. Almighty dynasties are to face each other in a skirmish, with neither of them envisaging the three-way deadlock that lies ahead. Because gods would kill for their royal entertainment.
1. Arya I

**Like Feral Wolves & Roaring Lions**

**By Jina E. Evergreen**

* * *

**I. **

**Arya**

Since the day the Lannisters had taken her father's head, the world around her had gradually darkened— the people around her had become a mass of obscure intentions, the roads she traveled down had started to resemble crawling snakes, and her once beloved trees had turned into skeletons scratching the sky. She had come through many nights of restless sleep, of bitter plotting and grim reminders of the past. _Joffrey. Cersei. Ilyn Payne. The Hound. _Her little bedtime story. The tale she told herself over and over again, the only way she knew to put the writhing beast inside her chest at ease. Throughout her journey, the pile of names had swelled, growing thicker, more insistent like purulent fester.

As her journey took her onward, she discovered her companions mattered not. Before Sandor there was Jaqen. Before Jaqen there was Gendry. And before Gendry there was her father, there was her mother, there were Robb and Bran and Jon and even Sansa, and there was also Joffrey and his wicked mother. It mattered not. If she allowed it to matter, she'd be crushed under the weight of it all.

_Joffrey. Cersei. Ilyn Payne. The Hound._ The more people she witnessed being slain, the bolder the chant spilled out of her mouth. Her clutched fists and the thought of finding Robb were the only real creatures in her life. The Hound was a stinking shadow and she'd just need to let him fade into the background. Though casting aside a shadow, big and somber as it was, had turned out to be a task the furthest thing from easy.

"That must be the most fucking inexpert way of skinning rabbits I've ever seen," Sandor Clegane growled as Arya struggled to bark the endless swamp of fur with her cracked fingernails. Her hands were covered with more gore than she had thought the cadaver had to offer, and she was frustrated to see she wasn't even halfway through.

She cursed lowly. The dead rabbit was a mess, with bones and guts jutting out of everywhere. "You won't let me hold a knife," she grumbled. "I'd like to see you doing better with just your bare hands!"

Though she wasn't sure results would be better if she had a knife herself. No one had ever tought her how to skin a rabbit. No one had ever tought her how to swing a sword either. She was starting to wonder what the hell they had been teaching her at all, back in Winterfell.

"I'm not the one who's eating this," the dog snarled, crossing his arms. "So I'm not the one skinning it."

"And I'm not the one who's eating all the decent food!" Arya shot back.

"It's not my fault you're not tough enough to get it from me, girl. It's not my fault you're gawky at skinning things either."

The Hound shrugged and his armour rattled along. He spat and raised a flask of something to his lips. She never knew what he was drinking, though she could bet her head it wasn't water. As he gulped greedily, some of the liquid spilled from the corner of his lips, coating his chin and throat.

"You're a hog," Arya muttered.

The Hound just snarled and mumbled something inarticulate under his nose.

"What's wrong?" she teased him, "Cat got your tongue?"

"No. But if you don't shut up, little lady, I might just get yours."

"Don't call me 'lady'!" She hated that word. _Lady_ was just another term for being helpless. She didn't see the point to coat simple things in complicated mantles. "I might be lady by birth, but I'm actually the furthest thing from it."

"Aye, aye, doesn't stinkin' matter."

"I'm not a lady!" Arya insisted.

"And I am no 'sir'. And yet people call me that all the time. Deal with it."

He said 'sir' with the same disgust she'd said 'lady'. She suddenly felt uncomfortable under his gaze and let her eyes linger down to the remnants of the rabbit. She went back to her work, twice more fierce than before, determined to prove the stupid mutt wrong. She was no lady. She wasn't gawky and she wasn't weak. She tore the flesh to shreds, pulling and plucking in complete disorder. Her palms were coarsened from the many months spent in the wild and her nose was wrinkled under the morbid stench of the corpse. She forced back the wild convulsions of her stomach as another wave of retching threatened to overtake her. Not gawky. Not weak.

"You're very close to your family now," the Hound suddenly said.

Arya froze, the faintest jolts of hope coursing through her at the thought. Then her eyebrows interlocked in a frown. "Why are you bringing this up?"

"Because I hoped it would gladden you. Can't have you grumping like a damned cunt for much longer."

"I'm not _grumping_," Arya protested crossly. Fighting with the Hound was like having an itch— it was maddeningly frustrating, but you ultimately had no options but to go for it.

"Call it whatever you like. You're annoying all the same. Keep it up, and I may end up slamming your head against a tree before your noble brother lays his eyes upon you."

There was something in the way he said it. Something in the way he looked at her as he spat the words. Arya felt the worms of fear creep up her spine, and anger coiled inside her almost immediately after. She summoned it to burn away all the weakness, all the stupid fear. That was how she usually overcame it anyway. If fear was a snake, she'd whelm it in the seas of molten furry, boil it until it drowned.

"I'll plunge a knife into your skull if you ever try," she promised, though it didn't seem to move the Hound a single bit.

"You have no knife. And even if you did, you wouldn't know what to fucking do with it. Now move along, we've no more time to waste on corpses that you've screwed up."

Before she attempted to argue, something hurtled past her in a flash. She knew the hissing sound too well. It was the sound the air made as an arrow licked its way through its layers. She turned to find the Hound grabbing his bleeding shoulder, just above the place where the arrow had sunk into his flesh. She heard shouts from somewhere behind her, and before she knew it, she was running.

It was like a second nature, really. So many times had she done it before, her body had memorized everything it had to do. Arya didn't even feel the wind as it bit her cheeks savagely. She had no ears for the sound of clashing swords behind her. She didn't hurt from the tangy rocks that jagged in her feet and bowled along beneath her as she ran.

She threw herself on a nearby tree, again— by instinct, and dug her blood-stained fingers in the hard rind, thrusting her soles up. She jerked her body, the bark flaying her shirt along the skin underneath. Arya just kept twisting and writhing as she climbed her way up. There was just her and the tree, the only two things that existed, entangled in a painful dance that boded blood and sweat. Her climbing skills were far from Bran's. She was average at best, but thankfully, the Hound seemed to present the diversion she so desperately required, as she heard him yell and swear heavily, accompanied by the screams of men and the songs of metal over metal. Arya got the time she needed to conquer the higher branches of the tree. Once she had managed to shuffle into the comforting arms of her hideout, she dared to look back and down.

The vague figures were blurred, dark contours amidst the green of grass and trees. She saw the silhouette of a large man being forced to his knees. The Hound had obviously suffered defeat. And no wonder, Arya thought. A dozen of men had surrounded him and more were coming. Not even the most skilled dog could stand a chance against a pack of feral jackals. All were clad in heavy armour. Knights. To Arya, it didn't really matter which great house they served. They all carried their swords— the silent proof that they had one true mistress and her name was War. Arya knew she'd be an underling to this enticing creature herself once she got Needle back. It both thrilled and scared her.

She waited. More men came. They shoved the Hound to the ground and she could hear the clank of something that could only be chains. As the Hound's captors dragged him along the raddle road, Arya slid deeper into the hug of the tree claws. The men passed under it, and she damn forgot how to breathe. She licked her dried lips and remained as still as a living thing can be. For a moment there, she felt like she might merge with the wood she was pressed against.

Arya heard the Hound curse violently and she knew that he was struggling. She saw a square-built man hammer the handle of his knife at the nape of the Hound's neck. The dog crumbled to his knees with a howl. Arya let herself feel the tiniest bits of glee at the sight. Though she knew she'd kill a man to be the one holding the knife.

"Kill the creep," said a fair-haired man. "You all saw how he took down a few of ours."

"We don't know who he is. Looks like a fighter. Might just get a fine ransom if he's any noble relatives," someone called.

"Just go through his stuff and let him rot here," another yelled.

"Put his head on a spike and let it be over with..."

Everyone seemed to have a say in the matter, which led Arya to believe their leader was either absent or simply not existing. She lost track of all the suggestions. Someone had clearly recognized Sandor Clegane, for the debates went twice as loud, and were now involving names like 'traitor', 'king vilifier', 'the fucking dog'. The one who'd discovered Clegane's identity shouted loudly, obviously proud of his achievement. Arya rolled her eyes. Recognizing Sandor Clegane was not exactly grand exploit.

One particular shout seized her attention. Something about bringing the Hound to 'the wedding', so that the Lannisters could thank him for his service properly. The very mention of that house summoned goosebumps to surface on her skin. Arya tensed her ears, trying to catch on what was being discussed. She heard 'The Twins', she heard 'Edmure', she also heard her brother's name, followed by a fit of scornful laughter.

That was when she knew there was bigger trouble coming up than she'd bargained for. The arguing was gradually quieting down. "To The Twins we take him then," she heard someone deciding, with no one challenging the settlement.

The fair-haired man kicked the Hound hard in the stomach, making him choke and spit red. "You hear that, dog? The Lannisters always pay their debts. And I hear they owe you quite the gratitude for deserting the fight at Black Water and anathematizing the King in front of his men. What do you think their gratefulness will look like? Any guesses?"

The sea of men laughed, but the Hound remained silent and stoic as ever. Arya often doubted the man was even capable of performing emotions. Sometimes she wondered if his face had frozen in the stance of fierce indifference after his brother had burned him. Like wax. She had other matters to concern herself with, though. Hearing the Lannisters would somehow be present at her uncle's wedding sent a thousand blades to dance across her insides.

Panic started to rise within her as the men renewed their travel, hauling the Hound along. Just before he disappeared from sight, he turned back. His eyes pierced through all the curtains of the wild forest and his orbs thrust themselves right into Arya's. She flinched, but she didn't look away. He was trying to tell her something. Before she got the chance to question him with her eyes, he turned around and disappeared in the mass of warriors.

When they all vanished from sight, Arya lamely crawled down from the tree, tipping out like a bag of rotten meat. She didn't understand what the Hound had just attempted to tell her. She had no escort now. No weapon and no food. There were men serving the Lannisters lurking somewhere close by. She knew she had to run. And run did she.

She ran for The Twins like she'd never run before.

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_A/N: This is meant to be a 20+ chapter story centered around many,** many** characters, but we'll see. For now, it's what it is. Thanks for stopping by. _


	2. Cersei I

**II.**

**Cersei**

That afternoon, Margery Tyrell was the adorable creature that she usually was. She was chatty with the noble ladies, engaged into small talk with a fine selection of superiors. She even had the fearless spirit to plague Joffrey with concerns over the folk's well-being. Cersei wanted to scrag the little bitch until she choked on her own sugar-coated words.

Instead of that, she attached a smile to her visage, one of those smiles she was afraid would one day peel right off her face, and went to ask the loathsome rose to leave her son to his important duties. Cersei decided she would very much like to see her Joffrey burst out, annoyed by the senseless rambling of his betrothed, and have Margery scourged for all the court to see. But for now, they had to avoid provocations towards the Tyrells. Not that she was afraid of the roses or found their presence in King's Landing indispensable, but her father would no doubt disapprove.

So with her plastic smile she went across the hall, her weapons being her burning eyes and cold politeness. She asked discreetly for Margery to retire in her chambers and get some well-deserved rest, but Joffrey shocked her as he insisted for his lady to remain at his side for he rest of the day. The girl smiled brightly, wrapping an arm around the king's elbow like a thirsty tentacle.

Cersei nodded her agreements, her mouth shaping the gallant words of formality on its own accord. It was a good thing she didn't really need to put her mind to the courtesy she was demonstrating, because at that moment, she was busy screaming internally. She excused herself and walked out of the courtroom with all the dignity that she could muster. Jaime had once told her that when she walked in a room, it was like she robbed all the other women of their beauty and their daintiness and took it for herself. She'd accepted the compliment with the smile she only had for him and his advances.

As the tearaway memories of her twin lover stole her away, she walked through the Red Keep like a ghost. She was deep in sweet thoughts, in the core of the blizzard that was her brother's image. She didn't even recall getting to her chambers, but when she was faced with the hard wooden door, she had to admit her mind knew the contours of this castle as thoroughly as her tongue knew the contours of Jaime's body.

Much to her dread, she found Tyrion perched on her bed, chewing something and whistling cheerfully. When he heard her approach, he waved with the tiny hand that always made her shudder, and winked at her. She nearly killed him then and there.

"If only looks could cut through men, sweet sister," her dwarf of a brother intimated playfully.

She had come to her chambers to find one brother just where she wanted the other. _The **wrong** one is in my bed. The one I desire is out there dying. What I wouldn't do to have them switch places._ The irony was never on a break, she thought, and she nearly laughed at her own bitter musing.

She suddenly remembered that Tyrion was present, and straightened her face. "What do you want?" She had no patience for his games.

"Radiant and bright as always." He chuckled, then hopped off her bed and cleared his throat. "Our lord father wishes to speak with us. We're summoned to the Hand's chambers. He sent me to inform you."

Cersei narrowed her eyes, willing to suspect she looked like an alarmed cat. _A lion_, she corrected herself._ I'm a lion_. "Why would he send you when he could have called upon someone I favor?"

Tyrion's lips curled up into an ugly grin. "Are you telling me there is a man in Westeros you favor more than me? That would just be devastating to hear."

She decided played along. "Oh, worry not, little brother. There aren't many people that come before you in my heart. Just the rest of our family, the noble members of the courtroom, all the lowlives on the Wall and every beggar in this city." It was her turn to finish with a smirk.

Her brother cliqued his tongue and shook his head. He laughed throatily and shambled to her side, then shamelessly took her hand in his and dragged her along him and out of the room. "Dear sister, sometimes I wonder about you," he began lightly, "So fierce, so frustratingly stern. And look at me**— **all meek and jolly. Sometimes I can't wrap my head around the fact that we're related." He stopped abruptly, causing her to bump into him. When he spun around he wore a face that indicated he'd just come through some major revelation. "Maybe father fucked a lioness and then she bore you?" He stared innocently at the ceiling. "Though that doesn't really make a suitable way for our beloved Jaime to draw first breath."

Mace Tyrell passed them with an urbane smile just as Cersei prepared to slap her brother. She held her hand with an enormous effort. Instead, she honoured him with the iciest stare she was capable of. "The reason why you and I differ so, brother, is not because we didn't come out of the same mother. It's because _you_ refused to share her."

That erased all traces of amusement from Tyrion's face. She knew it'd hurt him, no matter how many times she striked there. She mentioned their mother's death so rarely only because she wasn't sure if it hurt her more than it hurt him.

Tyrion let go of her hand stiffly and allowed her take the silent lead towards their father's quarters. No more words were broken, and Cersei felt the taste of bitter victory cured on her tongue. As they climbed the many stairs, Tyrion stumbled and nearly fell face-down. She didn't help him up, but neither did she gloat on his misfortune. Jaime often tripped on stairs too. Even clad in gowns that threatened to devour her in their folds, Cersei handled stairs like the epitome of perfection. She was proud to add another skill to the list of things she did better than both her siblings.

When they reached the entrance of their father's chambers, the guard bowed his head and let them in.

Tywin Lannister was sealing a letter when they walked in. His clever orbs danced over Tyrion and then settled on Cersei. She always felt uncomfortable under the critic eye of her father. Tywin tapped on the wooden desk, each thud digging sharply into Cersei's ears. The lord of Casterly Rock was about the only man capable of intimidating Cersei Lannister with just the tapping of a single finger. He was a musician, the desk being his drum and the strings of her nerves being his violet. And he knew exactly how this complex instrument was played. The seconds dragged out like lazy snakes.

"Father," she said finally, breaking the silence and nodding her respects.

"Father," repeated Tyrion after her, mimicing the gesture. She wasn't sure if he was mocking her or had been afraid to speak first.

Tywin pointed at the two chairs positioned in front of his workplace. "Sit."

They both did as commanded. As she sunk into the richly ornamented chair, Cersei didn't feel queenly. She felt meek and submissive, not a lion but a lion's dog. _If Jaime were the regent, he'd never let our father take over his duties. _She was starting to despise the weakness of her sex more than she was usually accustomed to.

Tyrion wriggled in his chair. "Still as wordy as you've always been," he tweeted. Cersei didn't know if he was addressing her, their father, or both.

Tywin crossed his arms and leaned back into his seat. His chair was bigger than hers. It was those small things that served to immensely annoy her. _Then again, **his** cock is also bigger than **mine**_, she reminded herself and jealousy venomed he core. _But my nonexistent cock still makes a finer set than Tyrion's._ She found satisfaction at the conclusion and left it at that.

"I called upon you two today to discuss a matter of remote importance," Tywin began. "I wished to inform you that Tommen is to be wed within the fortnight."

Cersei took a few seconds to chew the words. She felt Tyrion's gaze on her, but she kept chewing, syllable by dreadful syllable. Her father also seemed to wait for a reply from her. When she felt that the last bits of his statement were dunked, she decided it was time to stop chewing and start spitting.

"And I wish to inform you that no such thing will be happening."

"It is already decided," Tywin opposed cooly. "You have no more say in this than your brother."

"And what say does my brother have in this?"

The reply was cold like steel, yet stung like fire. "None."

Cersei fought to control her boiling wrath. First she had her eldest son engaged to a manipulative two-faced harlot, then she had Myrcella shipped off to Dorne like common cargo. Now they wanted to take her Tommen too, and marry him to gods-knew-who. Cersei would not let this particular plot of Tywin's live to crawl out of its crib. She imagined that her mouth was a furnace and the words were the smouldering stones that spilled out of it.

"I am his mother and by all the laws of gods and men I have more right over him than anyone else. As long as I am queen regent, I shall not allow this to happen, not against his own will."

"But his royal lordship prince Tommen blessed the union with his agreement," Tywin all but sang. "I trusted him to see reason, and he did."

Cersei was thunderstruck. _Has this all been happening behind my back? I'll have Varys hang for this. _She fell silent, desperately searching for words to lean on. She was a woman**— **words were supposed to be her most trusted lackeys, her arrows and her shield. And yet they had abandoned her.

Oddly enough, it was Tyrion who came to her rescue. "I am not convinced that prince Tommen has come of age to either make decisions for himself or see any further than the points of his shoes."

"Of course not." Tywin still remained unperturbed. "He has the Hand of the King for that matter."

At that, Cersei's anger reached its peak. "Who's the bitch?"

"Excuse me?"

"Who is the cunning little bitch whose bed you're shoving him into?"

Margery was skilled at the art of deception, and it would take no less than all her tricks to catch a wild fireling like Joffrey in the web. Tommen was another story. The boy was so innocent and trustful that even Moon Boy could turn him to a toy, if given the chance.

"Desmera Redwyne," Tywin answered. "Only daughter to Lord Paxter Redwyne and Mina Tyrell. Cousin to Margery Tyrell. Flame of hair. Fair of skin. Eleven of age."

Cersei blinked. "Eleven," she repeated dully. "Has the girl had an early flower?"

"None that we know of."

"So how is she going to fulfill her duty as a wife to my son?"

"We do not plan on having her do so. Not as of yet."

_Then why marry him?_ Though she felt like she might answer her own question just fine. A girl too young to be decisive. Birth not as noble as one would think a prince deserves, but still an offspring to a stable house, related to a powerful dynasty. What did the little bird have to offer? _Cousin of Margery Tyrell. Cousin of **Margery**... _The most dangerous of poisons oft times come in lovely phials.

_This is all the Tyrell's doing,_ Cersei realized. Why else would they marry Tommen to a wench who hasn't bled yet? They obviously wanted to bind her children to their heirs so that they could one day seize the Iron Throne for themselves. Yes, that would be it. _They have their Margery wrapped around my Joffrey, and now they've come for Tommen too. If father doesn't see this, then he is an even bigger fool than the Mad King himself. _

"If she has not yet flowered then why the hurry?"

"Because," her father's voice nearly cut through her, "we need the favor of the Redwynes and we need it as quickly as we can obtain it."

_Did you just lie to my face, father?_ Cersei knew that there was more to her father's haste than just the Redwyins' unimpressive army. She couldn't say it openly, though. Not only because she dared not, but also for that hideous dwarf was present, and she trusted him as she would a serpent.

As if having heard her thoughts, Tyrion twitched and coughed synthetically. "And what was I needed for, father?"

Tywin looked disappointed. "You still haven't figured out?" When no answer followed, the Hand of the King rose from his chair and paced across the room. "You will be making this marriage happen."

For the second time this day, Cersei was speechless and Tyrion was humorless. He laughed nervously. "We are yet to tell the bride's family they are expecting a groom, I take it?"

Their father nodded. "You will be delivering the news to the Redwyins, yes. You need only inform them that the feast will be held at Casterly Rock within a fortnight."

Cersei was aware of her father's fondness of their home. It was the symbol of their dominance, the roots of their strength. He had wanted her wedding to Robert Baratheon to take place there too, but his royal idiocy her husband had insisted on the marriage to be given breath to at King's Landing. It was tradition, he had argumented. _A dusty tradition of a rotten dynasty_, she'd thought. But she hadn't had a say in that. Now she didn't have a say in this either. She hated it, hated how there was no place for her in this world of men.

"All the great lords shall be present, and once the celebration is over, we will be gathering at King's Landing for Joffrey's wedding, as well as the wedding of your sister to Loras Tyrell."

The hair on Cersei's neck bristled at the mention of her upcoming wedding. _It shall come to it not_, she told herself. _It shall come not. _

Tyrion was visibly constrained. "Why, father? Why me of all people?"

Tywin shot his son a glare. "You think yourself not fit for a task this simple?"

"Let's face it, father, it's a delicate quest and it requires diplomacy. And, as winsome as I am, I am a dwarf and I will always be one. My authority is... questionable, to say the least."

The way he so easily pointed out his own shortcomings surprised Cersei. Though if she herself were a being as imperfect as her little brother, she'd probably be used to admitting her flaws as well.

"You are a Lannister and they owe you their respect," Tywin hissed, the first traces of sharpness hardening his voice.

"I still believe our dear Cersei should be the one to properly announce the engagement. Perhaps she should come along?"

Cersei nearly rolled her eyes. He only did this because a trip together would be just as annoying for her as it would be for him.

"Your sister will not be joining you," Tywin said, perhaps a little too quickly for Cersei's liking. She narrowed her eyes. There was something going on and if even her father was having a hard time covering it up, then it was something worth looking into. _Perhaps I might still have some use of the Spider._ "Pressing matters require the queen regent's presence here at court," Tywin went on, "And while you are on your way the Redwyns' seat, you will also get the chance to contribute to your family's well-being in other ways."

Tyrion looked unsurprised. "I need to spy, plot or murder, yes?"

"Not necessarily. Not if you do your task well."

"And what might that task be?"

Tywin looked at his son protractedly, then at his daughter. "I need you to deliver a letter to the Martells at Dorne."

_There it is_, Cersei thought. She knew her father would not reveal his intentions fully, at least not as of yet. But what he was about to say might be a chance for her to peep behind the eclipse of his masterfully hidden schemes.

"I am to pay a visit to Sunspear on my way south?"

Cersei and Tyrion waited patiently as their father opened the door and turned back to look at them on his way out. "You are to do no such thing. You will find a way to hand the letter to the Martells in absolute privacy. That means you will be traveling to the island of Arbour on a path as distanced from Dorne as the map allows you."

"What am I supposed to make of that?" Tyrion whined and rubbed his temples.

"You are my son," Tywin said. "You are going to figure a way out."

And then he exited the room, screwing the door shut at the faces of his startled children. Both literally and figuratively.

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_A/N: Thank you for all the reviews. I suppose this might live long enough to turn into something grand. Reasonably soon, I hope. Reasonably soon. Oh, and just so there's no confusion__— the events of this chapter, as well as the one before and the one to follow, take place right before the infamous Red Wedding. Seeing as many locations and many figures are involved, I will settle for saying that all occurances across the world of Westeros happen roughly at the same time... I think. I'll just shut up now. _


	3. Rhaegar I

**III.**

**Rhaegar**

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Since the day Stannis Baratheon returned from King's Landing**— **not as king, but as defeatist, his stronghold had indeed turned into a place of thick dread. Grim in its broken glory, it was the rotten corpse of an army and ideals that were no more. The name of Stannis was no longer uttered with worship, and neither did his claim meet the same warm trust it once had. The mantra of the red woman was still entangled in the air, but not as perceptible as the phenomenon it used to be. As the sinners burned in the fires of redemption, some of the bystanders looked more tremulous than inspired.

Yet Rhaegar Targaryen couldn't bring himself to dislike Dragonstone. Every time he said _dragon_, he felt the taste of his dreams ooze on his tongue. It tasted like ashes, like remnants, like sin. Every time his thoughts lingered on his shattered past, his being arched in a bow of rancor. It had taken Rhaegar half his life to return to Westeros, and he intended to make the homecoming worth his while. He knew he may never stitch the scattered pieces of his former life together, but he would see to it that the ones who had stained the Red Keep with the blood of his household feel the demons of his fury.

He walked past yet another balefire, his sparkling eyes skimming over the feral flames for a second.

"_...for the night is dark and full of terror._"

The chant was dull and empty. Rhaegar tugged at his shabby robe and wrapped it tightly around his broad shoulders. Several unruly threads of woven silver had crawled out from underneath the prison of his hood, screaming his lineage to the world. He didn't try to conceal them. Hiding the rest of himself was debasing enough.

The smell of blazing flesh was brought to him on the saddle of the western winds. Rhaegar allowed the stench of death to escort him on his way to the dungeons. The prison guard was snoring shamelessly, face-down on the filthy floor. Rhaegar had secretly hoped the poison would end the worm's life. _The Cripple's Tears_, that's what they called the venom he had come to select. The man, were he to live, would waken with a gangrenous hand or leg. Or cock.

Rhaegar pulled back his hood and bypassed the mutt that lay outstretched on the ground with more grace than any bastard Lannister could hope to muster.

There was scarcely a soul in Dragonstone's prison department. Not that Rhaegar expected any captives, seeing as Stannis had suffered defeat. What little noblemen he'd held hostage he had freed for a ransom in order to cover the expenses of his futile campaign. The light that poured from the dimming torches played on the walls decisively, creating shadows that weren't really there**— **the ghostly inhabitants of the empty cells. It was almost like a graveyard, haunted by the shadows of the dead.

_And now the dead weep o'er their halls... _

Rhaegar shuddered. Lyanna Stark. She had been a wolf, a wild storm he'd worshipped. He recalled her image so vividly that it made everything else vague and blurred in his mind. His father, the realm, the throne. Even the smile of his gentle wife as she rocked their children to sleep. All had faded into nothingness. They were all ice and Lyanna Stark was fire. Rhaegar could think of no one matching the vigor of her flame.

The image of a wench with golden hair surfaced in his mind without warning. Tywin Lannister's daughter, the one the Hand had plotted to marry him to. Cersei, Rhaegar remembered with effort. The girl had been a feast of a sight, blessed with both beauty and confidence to rival those of the Targaryen family. Rhaegar had never gotten the chance to actually break words with her.

One time Aerys held a regale that the Lannisters attended, and the lioness sat at Rhaegar's left. His father ordered a thief to be burned right in the middle of the courtroom, and the whole lot of noble women covered their eyes and did their best to hide their muffled cries. Rhaegar watched closely. His father often told him that there was an art to how a flame would carve itself into the flesh of different texture, and exploring the dance of the fire was indeed a thrill like no other. When Rhaegar turned to see how the lady to his left was coping, he was startled to find her gaze fixed on the wildfire, her face a mixture of excitement and something else. Only then did Rhaegar realize their hands were linked.

He recalled laying eyes on her a few times afterwards, though what truly left an impression was the way her brother stared at him as he did so. As though his sister was his property and Rhaegar was attempting to purloin it. And he no longer wondered why. It was a common truth among Stannis' men.

Now Cresei Lannister was a queen and her brother Jaime was a knight, both having crawled their way to power over the corpses of his relatives. He'd have them hang right next to their father and their bastard children.

The core of the prison was no different from all the rest. Only damper. And there was a man locked behind the zebra of air and iron. His looks had nothing unusual to offer**— **Rhaegar was convinced the man would never be something a woman's eye would linger on too long.

"Sir Davos," Rhaegar called, his deep voice cutting through silence with ease.

The man flinched and turned sharply, like a frightened stag. Recognition swam in his orbs as he eyed Rhaegar. "Who are you and what business do you have here?"

Rhaegar narrowed his eyes at the weasel. This one knew, he could tell. Of course he knew, this soul was clever. So much he'd heard. It'd be more alarming if the man was unaware of his identity. It would mean he'd come to the wrong person.

"I stand the very man that you suspect I am, and my business is my own."

Stannis' bedpan averted his gaze. Rhaegar knew the man was frightened, frightened to even give voice to the Targaryen name. It was a nice feeling, being able to engender such fear with solemnly your name. Sir Davos' eyes glided to Rhaegar's feet and dared not creep up. "What have you come here for?"

Rhaegar smiled charmingly. "I have a suggestion to make. One you may find yourself rather intrigued by."

Davos shuddered. "I'm not interested in turning ear to the whispers of a viper."

"A dragon," Rhaegar corrected, and went on unperturbed, "Like a viper, but with wings and claws and fire down its breath. Now, Stannis has honored you with his favor, if I hear correctly?"

"No longer, sir. Otherwise I wouldn't have found myself in this cell."

Rhaegar chuckled. "Then I stand corrected."

"Do you not wish to hear the cause?"

"Your quarrels are none of my concern. If my father attended to every quarrel in his kingdom, he would have gone mad even sooner than he did. No, for these matters I, _we_, the Targaryens, save our finest potion of indifference." Rhaegar caught the dread in Davos' eye as he pronounced _Targaryens_.

"What could a man of your kind possibly want with the likes of me?"

"Ah, '_want_'... Beautiful word. A rather misused one, indeed, for most men spend half their lives oblivious to the true meaning of desire, but still**— **want is a daring notion. Everybody claims to _want_ something. Robert Baratheon wanted to win, the usurper Joffrey Baratheon wants to rule, and your commander Stannis wants both."

A flame flickered in Sir Davos' tortured eyes.

"Lord Stannis only wants what is rightfully his!"

"That's just another kind of usurper. Though differing on the surface, all the men mentioned have something in common. You know what that something is?"

"It is preposterous to make comparison between a cruel impostor and the rightful monarch**—"**

"They all want to receive something, but once they do, they have no notion what to do with it."

"And what do _you_ seek to receive?"

A straightforward man. Good.

"Robert Baratheon and the Lannisters plotted their moves, nursed their webs and danced over the dead bodies of my children. You'd think I aspire to claim what one would call my 'birthright'. But here is where I divert from all the men I spoke of. I have no desire to _receive,_ to be_ given_. I only wish to _take_."

Davos didn't respond for a long while. He thread his palm through his matted hair and crossed looks with Rhaegar for the very first time. "You have no army to attack King's Landing."

"No," Rhaegar admitted, "But neither do I plan on attacking. Not King's Landing, at the very least."

"I would appreciate it if you spoke more plainly, my lord."

"Attacking King's Landing would be a foolish thing to do. It is heavily defended, and with a handful of capable tactitians making sure that all forces are being put to proper use. I believe your lord Stannis has already proven that much. "

Sir Davos stirred uncomfortably.

"Besides," Rhaegar went on, "even if I were to capture King's Landing, what gain would I meet? That place, as it is now, is a hive for every hypocritical bee across the Seven Kingdoms. Sitting on the Iron Throne, the way it is, would be no privilege. It would be deliberately sticking my head inside that rotten, blood-stained hive of whizzing bees. Saying that I find the idea rather unappealing would be an understatement."

"Why are you telling me all this, sir?"

"Because I might need your aid, sir Davos. Even if king Joffrey falls slain, the rest of the lions would always find a way to squirm their way out of it. Tywin Lannister is the most troublesome figure here. He would entrench himself inside of his stronghold and would not be seen again until he has gathered an army of appropriate number to answer the assault of his grandson's seat. No, I need to undertake a course more unexpected. Something that would wound the lion more severely."

He waited for sir Davos to chew the words, grasp their meaning. "You would attack Casterly Rock!" the man squealed once he realized what had just been ever so blatantly suggested.

"No lion has died because he lost a crown. But I will take away his home, I will burn his villages to the ground and bathe his lands in the blood of his own underlings. I will break them, and I will turn their roars to whimpers."

Davos looked equally terrified and confused. "And then what?"

Rhaegar shrugged the most light-hearted shrug he had. "Then I will sit on a throne that is free of lying bees."

"I am sure you are aware that Daenerys Targaryen plans to do the same**—**"

"I am _keenly_ aware of her intent," Rhaegar growled. "Worry not. I have other matters scheduled for my sister."

"You have no army," Davos repeated, as if to emphasize on the inconvenience.

"Oh, but I will be getting one shortly," Rhaegar reassured, crossed his arms, and nodded to him. "Yours."

Davos nearly jumped through the ceiling, and rewarded him with a look of utter disdain. "Stannis would never allow his men to fall into the hands of men like you!"

"Not without persuation, no," Rhaegar confirmed. "And _that_ is where the quarrel between the two of you turns into a concern of mine."

"I would not advice lord Stannis into becoming your instrument, even if our relations were in a better state."

"Even if I told you I would murder him in case you didn't?"

"You can do no such thing," Davos scowled. "You are but a ghost of the past, a forlorn shadow that has lingered in this world for far too long. Stannis may have suffered defeat, but he yet remains the most respected man of Dragonstone. You think his guards would let you near him?"

Rhaegar laughed elegantly. "His guards? No. Though his crimson priestess is a different story."

The two locked stares in a deadly skirmish. Rhaegar had never actually spoken to the red woman. He had simply heard sir Davos wasn't fond of her, so he knew his bluff would not be called. He had long since mastered the art of deception and it served him well in the combats of words.

He could practically hear the crooking as sir Davos bent under his gaze. It's what a triumph sounded like. "Even if I was to somehow win back Stannis' trust and reason him to strike Casterly Rock, you must bear in mind, my lord, that our troops have suffered great casualties at the battle of Black Water. We are running short on numbers and I'm afraid we may not be capable of doing what you're bidding."

"That's alright," Rhaegar said. "I have a dragon."

Another lie, but for the sake of greater good. Rhaegar was now positive sir Davos might explode then and there. "You have empty words and lack of proof."

"Oh please. If I wasn't certain I would win, why would I bother marching to the heart of the West at all?" Sometimes Rhaegar himself stood surprised at the ease he lied with. Davos slowly nodded, and the lost prince of Westeros knew his scheme would pass unnoticed.

A heavy silence weighed down. Sir Davos sighed and scratched his stout neck. "What is it that I am required to conduct?"

Rhaegar let himself bask into the light of victory. "Forgive the boldness, but what would it take to see your friendship with lord Stannis mended?"

Davos nearly wobbled. "A little more than I would like to give."


End file.
